The deafening silence perpetuates as I press the cool pills upon my palm. I ponder the failure that has invoked me this past year. “Where did I go wrong?” I ask myself in a voice that gradually descends into a soft whisper. Where did I go wrong? This past year has been compiled of mistrust and desolation. Relationships, contentment, and sanity have all but been compensated by self-inflicting hatred while I desperately struggle to solely cope with the misfortunes unleashed upon me. All of those who I could once confide in have reconfigured into the appalling figures that engage my mind within nightmares. I can trust no one. I situate myself amongst the damp towels that cover the tiled bathroom floor as I glance around the room unconsciously. A chilling voice escalates within my mind with the question I had refrained from acknowledging. “Will anyone even care?” it asks. “No.” I reply silently as tears begin to drip down my face. I was not always this way.

“Higher mommy, higher!” I shout over the other children at the park. “Are you sure sweet heart? I do not want you to fall at hurt yourself.” she replies in a solicitous manner. “No you will not! I trust you.” I smile widely, portraying several gaps of missing teeth. She proceeds to pushing my swing to the point in which it exceeds the height of the three-year-old next to me. I scream in delight as my five-year-old legs extend past the child’s.
Coming to the park had been a typical family outing each Saturday. My mom and I had always raced to see who would arrive at the swings first, upon which my brother and father, laughing in amusement, would then walk towards the open field to play football. We would end the eventful day with a barbeque, which we would complete by willingly distributing our remains to the local crows. It had been that way for years, until August 23rd.

On August 23rd, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. At the time, it seemed like an abnormal dream, a nightmare that had evolved into reality. I was solely twelve when it occurred. The doctor informed us that the cancer had developed, and that within months she would parish. The thought that my mother would die initiated my ultimate downfall. I cried and prayed during those months, hoping that somehow, a miraculous recovery would commence.

As I stared at the cold, lifeless body that lay before me, all hope that I had once possessed was obliterated. “Why would my mother die?” “Was it my liability?” I would often ask myself aloud.
Over the course of the next few years, my life began a downward spiral composed of misery and despair. None of my “friends” felt compelled to converse with me after my mother’s death. Their resolution was to avoid discussing the issue altogether, something that solely attributed to the heartache and seclusion that I felt.

The pain that assimilated in my body initiated my susceptibility to a lack of tolerance and inevitable failure. My expectations of myself began to exceed realism. I desired to succeed, to somehow compensate for the action that I thought to be liable of. Yet as I failed to live up to these newly developed expectations, my self-esteem and mentality towards myself suffered, to the point in which I acknowledged myself in a worthless manner. I began to envy all of those who managed to acquire contentment, something that I found to be unattainable.

While the pain and suffering continued to progress inside of me, no one suspected my detriment. I wore a plastic face in front of my family and my peers, while selfishly hoping that someone would hear my inaudible screaming. I began to justify my lack of necessity of attention, of help. I did not need it, nor did I deserve it. I began to believe that I deserved to suffer, and that elaborating on my pain would solely serve as an inconvenience for others, an inconvenience that I had rather not initiate.

A crow flies to my bathroom window, situating itself in a nearby tree. I glance at the crow, knowing that it will be the last animal that I come into contact with. As I clench the pills, I realize the extremity of what I am about to do, yet an odd sense of comfort overwhelms me. “Perhaps I will come into contact with my mother.” I state to myself. I grab the pills and swallow them, as I recollect the crows from the park. A feeling of contentment begins to escalate as I begin to appreciate what I once was. I was not the individual liable for my mother’s death. There is nothing wrong in grieving over the death of someone who I was fond of. I can seek others to assist me in regaining a sense of who I once was. I begin to glance around the room hesitantly. “I don’t want to die!” I scream. Yet the scream is silent. No one enters the room as I lay unconscious on the ground. The crow flies away.